Bloody hearts and bathtubs
by BucketsOfCrazyLove
Summary: He felt tired, as if weights were tied to every last one of his body parts, and they kept pulling him down, down, so deep, as if he was drowning in dark blue, sparkling blue, depths. This is Arthur's part of 'Celtic Songs and Spilled Tears'. But you don't need to have read the other one to understand this one. It's simple misery through a heartsick man's mind.


**Α/N: This is like a sequel for Celtic Songs and Spilled Tears, but not exactly. This happens at the exact same time the other one takes place, and it's from Arthur's point of view. As in, "look how miserable they both are." And here we go.**

Arthur was running low on scotch again. He had already gone out once when the second bottle had emptied. Now he had drained all the rest of them. Had they been five? Or maybe six, he didn't remember. But this time he didn't want to move a muscle. He was in his bathtub, the lukewarm water sloshing in and around his ears, as he barely kept his head over the surface. He felt tired, as if weights were tied to every last one of his body parts, and they kept pulling him down, down, so deep, as if he was drowning in dark blue, sparkling blue, depths.

Arthur let the empty now, bottle of whiskey that dangled off his fingers, fall to the floor and shatter. The sound was all too familiar. Breaking. And broken glass always left pieces. Pieces that could slit the skin, mar the flesh, and leave scar. So many scars. Scars that time couldn't heal.

Arthur knew that outside it must have been raining. He was sure, because he was crying, silently, tears unfurling down his damp face, and then becoming one with water. He had supposed, later that night, that drinking would help him numb his pain. But no. no, no, no. it was all still there. In fact, the empty spot that was his heart was now filled with jagged pieces of glass, cutting at his insides, like blades of blue fire.

At first he had thought that maybe the emptiness and the pain was a side effect of intense hatred. Which was, as he thought of it now, laughably wrong. No, only love could have hurt this bad. Only love could have felt as if he was being ripped from the inside out. He was sure. Why else would he feel such bittersweet longing every 8th of April? Why else would he feel such a fierce wanting of getting back to the old, ancient times?

Arthur laughed bitterly at himself. "Such a fool. I'm such a fucking fool." He let himself submerge completely, his whole body engulfed by water. Would it be so bad, he thought, if he just inhaled now? What would happen? Would he die? Would the water melt and liquefy his thoughts to nothing? Thoughts so angry... Thoughts about hands, and lips and tongues on _him_. About all the other people _he _had touched, and tasted. Thoughts about how he and his idiotic eyebrows had probably the only person in the whole world _he _hadn't fucked.

It had come to his mind, at some point of the way, that he should have punished _him_. But it just... it was impossible. So impossible. Just the image of those half-lidded deep blue eyes made him back off, and, inevitably, they sent thoughts of retribution and punishment as far as they could get.

He remembered when he had first felt the tugging at his insides. He had still been Albion, too little, and too thin, and too ugly. But he remembered how that feeling had felt like the most beautiful thing in the world right then. _Don't cry, Albion! It's all going to be okay. Here, I'll see you a song so you can forget your pain._ But it hadn't. That song, that terribly sad song, sang in a lilting voice, had only, with the years intensified his pain. Most days it felt like a dull ache. Today, though, it was sharp as knife stuck in his heart like the poor organ was some kind of meat block.

Arthur opened his eyes inside the water and saw the surface right there, in front of his eyes. He wondered if he should emerge. He would rather not. The burning in his lungs almost distracted him from the burning in his heart. The operative word being almost, because Arthur was pretty sure that particular burning would follow him even in death.

So he popped out of the water, taking deep breaths and panting hard, his hair sticking to his face. He waited for the relief to settle in his chest, but it never came. Disappointment crashed down on his shoulders again, almost submerging him once more. And that longing again. What could _he _be doing right now? He was probably partying somewhere, or shagging everything that moved. Arthur's throat clogged in anger, so much anger.

He got up, and stepped out of the tub. In his feet now were stuck thousands of pieces of glass, and he was leaving bloody footprints at his every step, but he couldn't bring himself to care. He wrapped a towel around his body as he shivered violently. But it had nothing to do with the cold, or with the pain. The physical pain, at least.

Arthur dragged himself to the bed and collapsed on it, the sheets turning red and damp, from his blood and his tears. Maybe if he gave himself more scars than what he had on the inside, maybe, just maybe, the only pain that actually hurt him would subside. But no. Because it was love. And nothing could beat the pain that love left in a heart.

**A/N:Please, review. I need to know if I've done a good enough job with Arthur's fifteen minutes of misery.**


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